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Francis Santos Dec 2014
You're the shooting star
That I've wished upon for so long.
A thousand times and more,
I closed my eyes, as I crossed my fingers
Whispering your name;
That somehow, in some way,
The heavens would listen.

A bargain of that cosmic chance I'll take,
If it's all for your sake.
So let me be an astronomer
Who wants to hold your hand,
Because heavenly is what you are;
My love, please don't forget,
That heavenly is what you are.
Francis Santos Dec 2014
They say,
There is a light we all seek;
But all I see are the dark clouds
Forming and massing.

Wherever I walk and run,
They rapidly follow and chase me,
Plaguing the skies with gloom,
Stretching forward,
Farther away,
Beyond me.

A curtain of shadows fall
In droplets of black;
Eating my sight,
Creeping in my body,
Consuming me like
Decay that ravaged the fields
Where I once frolicked.

All is shrouded in terror and blight.
I could see the towers
I have built, which stood strong
And firm, where I once kept
Watch in wait, now fall and crumble,
Its foundations reduced into rubble.
They now kneel in the dark
Like lost pilgrims.

How can the light
Touch my face now?
If Despair has already kissed my lips,
And I, have become its lover.
We have exchanged our vows,
Etched like tattoos in the sky,
Saying, "till death do us part".
This poem was a dream of mine, perhaps a nightmare that haunted me back in the past.
Francis Santos Dec 2014
Every single day,
I try to **** and ****
The loneliness and pain,
So much that I stand
Upon the piled up corpses
Of the daily sufferings
That I have murdered.

They have stretched
Into an endless ocean
Of rotting bodies;
Bodies that I do not
Even recognize anymore;
The waves of faces
That I have forgotten,
And the waves of faces
That have forgotten me.

I would always see
The murky reflection of memories
That can never be found anymore,
Lost in the ripple
Of my silenced screams within.
Francis Santos Nov 2014
We are all like deformed seraphs
With seven wings that flight death.
We conceive filthy cherubs in swamps,
That dwell in the eden of our own making.

We have inherited muck from our fathers,
Passed on as glorified heirlooms;
And like fools we are, we proudly raise
That useless dirt we crawled out from.

In an effort to save our decadent ways;
We put our own blood over our doors,
And don our fig leaves that wither
As ******* sons and daughters of the earth.

Like heretic church curators we are,
We gather choirs that sing hymns of lies,
As its melody echoes in a swift pace
To defile the hearts of the innocent.

Truth and Beauty, do we even know?
Our own replica of it, we create.
We liken it to things that poison and ****,
And celebrate upon ruins of graveyards.

We have taken Death’s sickle,
And used it to tear the Book of Life.
We sleep in the mount of skulls and bones,
Where our castle of agony lies.

We dwell in the place of worms,
We have built a throne of flesh,
We have dined on decayed carcass,
And drank sulfur for wine.

We have fed our children to the wolves,
As the blood of our people
Seep in the soil of the earth,
And flow in the waves of the seas.

We have crept like marauders
Under the beds of our neighbors,
To slit their throats in their sleep;
So that we may bathe in their blood.

For we all desire to be drenched in blood,
To be covered in its velvet cloak.
Not knowing, that the blood we seek all along,
*Is the cleansing blood that Christ gives.
Francis Santos Nov 2014
"Handle it with care"
That, I would always say.
To you, I give my heart so fragile;
A risk that I would never dare
To let another hold
Such a thing so rare,
Which you always seem to break
With your trembling hands.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident"
That, you would always say.
So I always have ****** palms,
And marred fingers,
From always picking up
The sharp fragments
Of my once called heart,
That you so fearfully handle.

Mind that I don't blame you
And your frail hands.
I pick up every blood-stained piece,
With a warm smile.
Every tear and sweat
That ran from my face,
Would wash away the stains,
Restoring its brilliance.

Now I realize that rarity
Does not come in fragile form.
It comes in the form of beauty
That endures. Once healed,
The pieces brought together
Illuminate into a colorful mosaic,
Dedicated to you.

Let its splendor captivate you.
A masterpiece that will drive
All the fears and worries away,
As it makes the trembling end.
For they are not just fragments,
But mementos that will last;
Images that will forever gleam,
**Of you and me.
Love is painful, yet beautiful.
Francis Santos Nov 2014
There were eyes on us,
Mouths against us,
Crowds of false witnesses
Wrongfully accusing us.

Beneath all their lies,
Did our truths blossom,
Upon the edge of doom,
Did we learn to love.

But I never intended,
That your name be sullied,
Or your mother to grieve
To those lies they heave.

So the angry mobs gather,
Together with the royal guards;
But I will face such danger,
For our happily ever after.

All to prove our love,
To prove your innocence;
For our names to be cleansed,
I will endure in your defense.

But you cried and said,
"My love, you need not suffer,
We can escape, and go on,
To our happily ever after."

So we ran into the mountains,
Into the woods and glades;
With nothing but love in our hands,
Hoping that fire won't fade.

The princess once adored,
Was now but a vagabond;
Who thought she was free,
Being cut from her family tree.

They would release their hounds,
Hunting us day and night.
But young love is stubborn,
Never giving up a fight.

In the hold of my arms,
There, you were undone.
In the worries we both buried,
There, we were married.

And as the winter days passed,
That fire we kept aged;
Your smile is now long gone,
Our love's toll, we have paid.

That blazing fire we held,
Kindled by your frail branch
From the family tree,
Weakened to a dying ember.

The halcyon days barely kept
By that ember, were swept
By the shadows in our front door,
Killing its remnants of ardor.

Now it has turned to ash,
The fire died, and it didn't last;
Our hands were scorched in agony,
Left with nothing but traces of ebony.

So we held each other's heart
With dark and ***** palms;
Which blackened our hearts
To beat fast resounding qualms.

Lover, we sleep cold every night,
For we have lost our burning light.
In the darkness, we shiver,
As doubt completely takes over.

In our love forsaken rituals,
Did we offer ourselves like animals,
Banished from our old homes,
Left to die with broken bones.

Lover, we have taken back
All the promises we've said,
Our dreams of happily ever after,
Are now long dead.

A narrative poem about love and tragedy.
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